


Fairytale (Christmas) of New York

by CityOfPaperBuildings



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: A hint of Steve/Tasha, British Christmas, M/M, Presents, Skimmons (if you squint)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-02 18:13:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CityOfPaperBuildings/pseuds/CityOfPaperBuildings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you hear that, Jarvis? The British are coming! We must prepare accordingly. Bring up everything you’ve got on festivities over the Pond…”</p><p>Tony's enamoured with the idea of hosting FitzSimmons and the team for Christmas but all Clint wants is for Phil to come home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fairytale (Christmas) of New York

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt 115: Avengers end up hosting the AoS crew for Christmas. Bonus points if FitzSimmons are missing home and Tony decides to go all out with traditions from across the pond.
> 
> All my thanks to 17pansies for the beta on this, she is a star.

Clint tucked himself further into one of the enclaves of the roof of Stark Tower where the wind couldn’t get him and he could survey the city in peace. He spent a lot of time watching over the city now, his eyes constantly searching for something out of place, something which indicated his world was about to change again. He didn’t let himself think about Phil, somewhere on this planet, where Clint couldn’t watch his back.

Christmas had always been their holiday, one which they could spend together. Clint suspected some heavy favoritism from the rostering agents but when your boyfriend takes one through the chest for the team, you deserve a bit of special treatment. But right now, it was looking as though Phil wouldn’t make it back in time.

His phone buzzed in his jacket pocket and he fumbled to extract it, fingers numbed a little from the cold.

“Please tell me you’re wheels up now, winging your way home,” he said, tucking his phone between his chin and shoulder and stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“We caught a break in the case, we’re heading to Guatemala. I’m sorry, Clint. I want to be home too.” Phil sounded tired and Clint could picture him at his desk, fingers pressed into his eyes. “I promise you, I’ll be there for Christmas. I’m not spending it on the Bus.”

Clint smiled into the phone, feeling Phil’s voice always provide the reassurance it always did and settle his nerves.

“There is one thing though. If this lead pans out, I won’t be able to get the team to their families in time for Christmas, especially not FitzSimmons who, by the way, have been singing this godawful song for days now - Merry Christmas Everyone - I think May’s considering letting them fall out of the back of the Bus. Can Stark take in a few strays?”

“Hang on a sec,” said Clint and he scrambled through the vent shafts which had got him to the roof, dropping into the middle of the living room. It said something about the frequency with which he did this that no one batted an eyelid.

“Where’s Tony?” he asked, just as the man appeared from the kitchen carrying a pot and mug of coffee.

“You rang?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Phil wants to know if you can host his team for Christmas. They’re not going to be able to take everyone home in time.”

Tony waved a hand, which thankfully now was free of a coffee-filled vessel. “Sure, the more the merrier and all that. Wait,” he paused, “will the Brits be coming too?” he asked, a sudden glint in his eye.

“They will,” confirmed Clint.

“Do you hear that, Jarvis? The British are coming! We must prepare accordingly. Bring up everything you’ve got on festivities over the Pond…”

Clint wandered away as Tony rambled on, exclaiming over various small details.

“Stark’s on board then?” asked Phil, dry humour clearly evident.

“He’s bored,” said Clint. “He hasn’t had to use the suit in days and Pepper’s making him do charity festive stuff for the company so he’s been looking for a project. I think this holiday’s going to be one to remember.”

“Who wants a traditional Christmas anyway?” asked Phil softly. “I’ve got to go. I’ll call when I can. Love you.”

“Love you,” replied Clint, disconnecting the call and turning back to the rumble of conversation which had grown steadily louder behind him.

All the team had been summoned and were gathered around the big screen watching Tony scroll through various pictures of food, families, idyllic Victorian scenes etc. until suddenly Tony stopped the images.

“Jarvis, wait, what are those?” asked Tony, pointing at a picture of short patterned tubes, indented just short of the ends where bows were tied, laid around a table.

“Those would be crackers, sir. A popular British tradition in which two people pull on the cracker from either end. The cracker will come apart with a small bang and the contents, normally a paper crown, joke or trivia item and a small toy or novelty item will be assigned to the owner of the cracker.”

“Brilliant! I’ll be in the workshop. Pepper, if you could…” he said, wandering off as he gesticulated at the screen with his mug.

“On it,” she confirmed. “Thor, you're in charge of mulled wine for Christmas Day. Bruce, Tasha, I’m going to need you to figure out what we’re going to be eating. Clint, you’re in charge of firewood because you know Tony’s going to want to use the chimney. He’ll be so pleased to have a use for it. Steve, can you do more stockings? We don’t have enough now.”

They all dutifully nodded, not daring to question Pepper when she was in scary organisational mode. Bruce and Tasha sat down with a tablet and scanned through various articles on British Christmas meals, scribbling down ingredients on a notepad. Clint started Googling where to buy firewood in New York, not something he ever thought he’d be looking up and Steve shrugged on a jacket and headed to the fabric store. 

Stark Tower had been decorated last week for the holidays and Steve had surprised everyone by producing themed stockings for each Avenger which he’d hung over the fireplace. Sewing was relaxing, he’d explained, and the ‘make-do and mend’ mentality he’d grown up with meant he’d become pretty good at it. He’d wanted to do something nice for the holidays and this seemed a good way to do so. Making six more wouldn’t be too challenging.

-

The next morning, that of the 21st, Tasha found Clint sitting at the breakfast bar pushing the remnants of cold cereal around his bowl, idly flicking through the day’s news on his StarkPad.

“You’re moping,” she observed as she poured two mugs of coffee and handed one to Clint, hopping on the stool beside him.

“I’m not,” he replied, cringing a little at how childish he sounded.

“I know what your moping face looks like and you’re wearing it right now. Hey,” she paused, laying a hand on his arm. He turned to look at her, blue eyes a little clouded. “He’ll make it back in time. Believe that. Now, I’m not going to let you sit here while everyone’s busting their butts to make this odd British Christmas happen. Bruce and I are going shopping in an hour and you’re coming too.”

He opened his mouth to protest and then closed it again knowing there was no arguing with Tasha once she’d set her lips that way. You might as well ask the sun not to set.

He met them by the elevator and caught the set of keys Tasha threw at him.

“We’re driving? In New York? At Christmas?” he asked in disbelief.

She thrust the list at him which she and Bruce had made. It covered an entire sheet of filler paper.

“Unless you want Hulk to come shopping, we’re driving,” said Bruce drily. “The turkey alone weighs about twenty pounds.”

Food shopping for thirteen people, two of whom eat for at least three, is a long and exhausting process as Clint learned. They gradually filled the trunk of the SUV with food and drink and an alarming amount of dried-fruit-based desserts. Christmas cake, tiny sweet tartlets called mince pies and Christmas pudding were all purchased from a little store in the West Village.

As they left, Clint stuck his head in the bag and breathed in deeply. He didn’t really know what was going on in that bag but it smelled incredible in there, fruity and spicy and liberally drenched in brandy. Clint suspected he might like a British Christmas.

The next day though, Clint was restless. He couldn’t sleep, the bed feeling too big after anticipating Phil’s return to it for so long. He’d pulled on one of Phil’s sweatshirts, cuffs stretched out through age, and sat by the floor to ceiling windows looking over the city, watching it come to life. As dawn finally broke, he fixed some breakfast and disappeared to the range. Hours melted away as target after target fell until the supply of arrows ran dry and his shoulder muscles burned.

His stomach growled insistently, pushing him toward the kitchen, where he was met by what was possibly the most wonderful smell he’d ever encountered. Thor was stood by the stove, stirring the contents of a giant pan.

“Barton!” greeted Thor, clapping him on the back as Clint rummaged in the fridge.

“What’s cooking, Thor?” asked Clint as he assembled a giant sandwich.

“Mulled wine, or gløgg, as I know it better. The Lady Pepper requested it for the festivities and I was happy to oblige. There is much red wine, spices and your citrus fruit in here and I believe,” he said, pausing to taste it, “that this is ready.”

Clint poked his head over the pot and just about stopped himself salivating over the smell which wafted up towards him. It reminded him of the first Christmas he and Phil had spent together, trapped in a tiny village in Bavaria keeping an eye on a rogue Hydra cell. Phil had snuck out one evening and returned with two mugs of delicious spiced wine. They’d indulged in all stereotypes, sitting by the fire, blanket at their feet, feeding each other Stollen. For a brief moment, Clint had been able to forget they were on a mission.

The 23rd rolled around and Clint was headed out to pick up the firewood from a guy upstate when he passed by Steve’s room and stuck his head round the door. Steve was, for once, not at the sewing machine but tucked in an armchair with sketchbook and charcoals.

“Hey,” said Clint, “uh, sorry, didn’t mean to disturb.”

Steve looked up and smiled at Clint. “You’re not disturbing me, what’s up?”

“I’m just headed out to get the firewood and thought maybe you’d like to come too?”

“Absolutely, I’ll just grab a jacket.”

They drove for a little while chatting about the upcoming festivities and how Steve’s poor sewing machine was being seriously put through its paces.

“How are you doing with the wait?” asked Steve.

“For Christmas? I’m a big boy now Steve, I can wait for Santa,” Clint joked.

“For Phil,” said Steve softly. “I know a little of what it’s like to wait for someone to come home for Christmas. I had a friend...Bucky. He was sent on a mission five days before Christmas. No one would tell me where he’d been sent, when he was supposed to be coming back, nothing. So I sat in the barracks and drove myself a little crazy worrying about him. And I shouldn’t have, because Bucky, well, he could always look after himself. Looked after me most of the time, even after Erskine.” 

There was a fond smile on Steve’s face, but then he sighed. 

“We’d never spent a Christmas apart, not since the day we’d met and back then, you never knew if this Christmas would be your last. I knew he’d be trying to get back on time but sometimes the mission takes priority, sometimes you’re far away from everything you know and everyone you love and it sucks. Christmas Day rolled around and he wasn’t there but the guys, the Commandos, pulled me out of my bunk and into the mess for lunch. There were games and songs but I just wasn’t there, you know? So I ducked out early and headed back. He was there, fast asleep in my bed, covered head to toe in mud and blood, and there was a small box on the nightstand. Coulson’ll make it back, Clint. When they know what the holiday means to you, they’ll always find a way.”

Steve looked back to Clint, his story told with eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead.

“He’ll make it,” Steve reassured him.

Not long after Tony had agreed to host a British Christmas, he’d realised that would mean he’d miss out on all his favourite American holiday traditions so, on one of the rare occurrences that he’d made it out of the workshop, he’d declared that Christmas Eve would belong to the Americans.

Which is how on Christmas Eve, Clint found himself decorating the tree in an entirely red and white theme. Candy canes were artfully strewn, strands of red and white lights were wound round and round and exquisite painted glass ornaments were hung from every branch. Steve and Tasha came in, arms laden with the remaining stockings, carefully sewn by Steve and pinned them above the fireplace, before helping Clint finish decorating. Predictably, Tony had had the largest tree possible delivered and to reach the top, Tasha had to stand on Steve’s shoulders as Clint passed up the last remaining ornaments. Finally, the tree topper, which was a red and white Iron Man figure, adorned with the cape from one of Thor’s figures because, well, because Tony.

Eventually evening rolled around and Tony appeared from the workshop, “It’s a Christmas miracle,” joked Pepper, in time to join them for dinner, after which he decreed that they would all watch It’s A Wonderful Life, accompanied by eggnog, liberally spiked, and sugar cookies.

They all piled onto the sofas, hands wrapped around mugs. Tony leaned into Pepper, settling as she absently ran her fingers through his hair. Thor and Bruce took up another sofa while Clint had buried into the corner of a third, making himself small and trying to ignore the niggling worry and sadness which threatened to overwhelm him. Tasha, perceptive as always, came and sat next to him, tucking her feet under his thigh but resting her back on Steve’s shoulder, who’d settled himself in the gap she’d left for him.

Clint half-watched the film while his brain ran through various possibilities until suddenly the film paused and through the speakers instead came Jarvis.

“We have incoming, sir.”

The screen switched to the feed of the Helipad and they saw a SHIELD-issued bird come into view.

“There’s your boy, Barton,” said Tony, half-asleep on Pepper, but Clint was already up. Once standing though, he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. Inside his heart was jumping and his face kept threatening to break out into the most ridiculous grin. He wanted to leap and run and pull Phil into bed and pin him there for the foreseeable future. Instead he sat back down, trying to ignore the tiny tremble in his legs as he did so. He was not going to let Phil see that he actually made him go weak at the knees.

The door from the roof slid open and Ward appeared, closely followed by Skye, FitzSimmons, May and then, finally, Phil.

The Avengers all rose to the feet, to greet their new house guests, take their bags and bring them drinks. Phil slipped carefully around it all and pulled Clint up from his seat, over to a quiet corner.

He held both of Clint’s hands, their fingers intertwining by their sides, as his eyes flickered over Clint’s face, as if cataloguing every tiny difference since they’d last been together nearly two months ago.

“I’m sorry I made you worry,” he said quietly, his head a bowed a little. “I know what the holiday means to you, but the mission just couldn’t wait.” 

“Hey,” said Clint, extracting one hand to run his fingers along Phil’s jawline, scratchy with stubble, and pulled Phil towards him, pressing their lips together. “You’d have been here if you could, I know that.” Clint rested his forehead against Phil’s and snaked his arms under Phil’s suit jacket as Phil’s wormed their way under the edge of his sweater, fingers toying with the hem of his t-shirt.

Clint raised his head to look at Phil’s more closely.

“Your freckles have gone crazy,” he said, lightly kissing them. “Are you sure you weren’t just sitting on a beach the whole time?”

“I assure you my toes never touched the sand,” Phil murmured. 

“Hey, lovebirds!” came the call across the den.

“Tony!” admonished Pepper.

Clint laughed quietly and Phil looked up. “This better be important, Stark.”

“I assure you, it is. Brandy or bourbon in your eggnog?”

Clint flipped him off affectionately as Phil requested bourbon and together, the Avengers and Phil’s team sat down to finish the movie.

-

The next morning, Clint awoke with a start as he kicked a deadweight off the end of the bed and it fell to the floor with a thump.

“Hmm?” asked Phil sleepily. “S’matter?”

Clint crawled cautiously to the end of the bed and peered over. There were their stockings which he knew had been left pinned to the mantlepiece downstairs when they went to bed and yet here they were in their bedroom, filled with tiny presents. He pulled them up onto the bed and handed Phil’s to him who had now sat up and put on his glasses.

“Jarvis?” asked Phil. “What’s going on?”

“A British tradition, sir. Father Christmas will leave stockings of small gifts on the ends of the beds of children,” came the answer.

“But how - ? You know what, never mind,” decided Phil. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

So Clint tucked himself back into bed and unwrapped the myriad of small gifts, comparing his with Phil’s until Jarvis announced that everyone was waiting for them in the dining room. Breakfast was served.

They ambled downstairs, sweaters pulled over their pyjamas, to find everyone in various sorts of sleepwear sitting around a table laden with toast, scrambled eggs, sausages, mimosas and coffee. But Clint’s attention was diverted because the Christmas tree had been entirely redecorated. Now it was just white lights, with purple and silver decorations, topped with a large silver star.

“Who did all this?” he asked, gesturing around the place, as Phil pushed him gently towards the table and into a seat next to May.

“Well Tasha and I did the food,” answered Steve, “but the tree was like this when we arrived.”

“And the stockings?” asked Clint as he filled his plate.

“Santa obviously,” replied Tony. “The big guy clearly thinks we were good this year.”

Clint raised his eyebrows but said nothing further. Let Tony keep his secrets.

The two teams chattered happily over the food, getting to know one another, until every last scrap had been eaten at which point Steve led the way into the den for the important tradition of present opening in pyjamas.

The rest of the morning disappeared in a flurry of wrapping paper, accompanied by large glasses of Thor’s mulled wine. Pepper had made sure gifts had been bought for Phil’s team and in turn, the SHIELD agents had brought some of the best coffee and chocolate Guatemala had to offer.

Tasha and Bruce had some preparations left to do for lunch having already put the turkey in the oven and Tasha flat out refused to prepare the meal in her pyjamas so she went to get dressed, prompting everyone else to do the same.

The teams spent the rest of the morning swapping mission stories and showing off a little as more and more mulled wine was consumed. Ward and Clint compared distances of shot successfully taken and the weather conditions at the time; Pepper talked with May and Skye about the difficulties of managing men without letting them know they’re being managed; Fitz was barely containing his excitement at talking engineering with Tony Stark while Simmons was fascinated by Thor’s stories of the different creatures he had seen and she anguished over not being able to study them.

Various offers to help in the kitchen were rebuffed politely but firmly and everyone knew not to mess with Tasha when she was wielding a knife. As lunch time approached, Tony disappeared to, ‘dazzle you all with my genius’ in his words and no one was allowed into the dining room until they heard him holler.

“It’s Chriiiiiiiiistmaaaaaaaas!” came the racket from Tony’s general direction.

Fitz and Simmons led the way and stopped dead in the doorway.

“Oh!” exclaimed Jemma softly, “it’s perfect! Fitz, look.”

“You like it?” asked Tony, a little uncertainly, leading them into the room.

Finally Clint made it over the threshold and had to admit, he was impressed. Tony had really made an effort. There were boughs of evergreen on the walls, white lights strewn among them, candles flickered in tall cast iron holders in the corners and the table was covered, it seemed, in the crackers which Tony had become so excited about just a few days ago.

Engraved metal name cards designated the seating plan and a cracker, red and gold in design, was laid diagonally across the place setting. In the middle though, running the length of the table, was one enormous cracker. Tony had placed Thor and Steve at the top and tail of the table with Avengers and SHIELD agents alternating in between.

“Gentlemen, if you would,” requested Tony with a wave of his hand.

Thor and Steve seized either end and pulled, staggering backwards with the effort, and as the cracker tore in two a great number of lights of all different sizes sprung upwards in a sort of net which hung over the table and a shower of tiny silver snowflakes fell over the room. The connecting fibres between the lights gave off a silvery glow and music started to play.

“Tony! Mr Stark,” Jemma hastily corrected herself. “That’s just...I mean it’s…” she floundered.

“It’s beautiful,” Skye supplied, smiling as Jemma shot her a grateful look.

They all craned their necks upwards for a while until Tasha and Bruce, who nobody had noticed slip away, returned with platters laden with soft folds of smoked salmon, nestled on a bed of rocket leaves with thin wedges of lemon scattered over the top and placed them along the center of the table.

“As delicious as this all looks,” interrupted Fitz, “I believe there are more crackers to pull. You can’t start eating if you’re not wearing a crown.”

Everyone looked at him, bemused faces across the board.

“We are all to be crowned?” asked Thor, struggling with the idea a little more than most.

“Not literally,” answered Fitz. “But in crackers, there are always paper crowns. I think it’s a Three Kings thing, from the Nativity story, but really it’s just a bit of fun. Now, everyone pick up your cracker and hold it in your right hand…”

He paused while everyone did so and looked back at him expectantly.

“And you give the other end to the person on your left so you cross your arms…”

Again, another pause while people struggled with this seemingly difficult task. Fitz looked at Jemma and rolled his eyes and she giggled, a little. Once everyone was in position, Fitz called “PULL!” and they all did to a cacophony of bangs and cracks around the table and the clatter of metal onto crockery. Fitz looked round and amazingly, everyone had won the contents of their own cracker and he caught sight of Tony looking exceptionally pleased with himself.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Tony announced. “Here are my gifts to you all, and myself of course. Merry Christmas!” and he raised his glass of wine in a toast.

A hubbub of chatter rose as everyone examined the contents of their cracker. Instead of the standard paper crown which Fitz had had them all expect, the lightest concertina metal crown unfolded in their hands and could be adjusted to sit snugly on everyone’s heads, even Thor’s.

Clint looked over at Coulson, who was sat opposite him to see him placing his own crown atop his head and then helping Pepper adjust hers. Phil smiled, one of utter contentment and peace and with a look, urged Clint to play ball and put his own crown on too.

The Clint turned his attention to the small wrapped gift on his plate. He weighed it in his hand, cautiously inspecting it from every angle, before tearing through the wrapping to reveal five exquisitely crafted throwing darts, ones for board play certainly, but, Clint suspected, equally useful and deadly in the field.

He looked around the table as everyone examined their gifts too. To his left, Ward had a silver tie pin to which Tony had attached a note, explaining that if he pressed the jewel on the front, a chemical would come out of the pin part which would render a man unconscious for at least 5 hours. Ward tucked it away with extreme caution. Next to him, Tasha had a brand new tiny lock picking set; Bruce had an incense stick holder which was clearly an antique; Skye had the newest, not yet on the market StarkPhone; Steve unwrapped a leather pouch of beautiful drawing pencils; May had an exceptionally deadly-looking butterfly knife; Tony had given himself a tiny desk tidier bot which was now entertaining itself by running up and down the table picking up the discarded wrapping paper; Fitz had unrolled a set of blueprints for a new design for something which he was scrutinising with great interest; Simmons had exclaimed over a written promise from Tony that he’d send samples of whatever nasty they took down that week (‘Screw the protocols’, he’d written); Phil was holding a beautiful fountain pen in his hands, which Clint recognised as a Montegrappa from the catalogues he definitely hadn’t teased Phil about at least a hundred times; Pepper had a beautifully crafted black diamond bracelet which she snapped round her wrist immediately and finally Thor, who had an engraved metal brooch, for cloaks Clint supposed, which was an identical copy of Mjolnir. He looked immensely pleased with it and pinned it on the godawful Christmas jumper he’d insisted on wearing.

Phil stood and turned towards Tony, raising his glass as he did so.

“Tony, you have outdone yourself. These gifts are incredibly thoughtful and perfectly chosen. A very Merry Christmas to you. Now, shall we eat?”

“Hear hear!” agreed everyone as they tucked in.

Once the platters were cleared, Tasha and Bruce, accompanied by Steve this time disappeared back into the kitchen only to return with a huge bronzed turkey and dish after dish of pigs-in-blankets, roast potatoes, stuffing, roast parsnips, braised purple cabbage, sprouts and both cranberry and bread sauce along with a boat of gravy.

“It’s just like Mum’s,” breathed Jemma. “Oh god, nobody tell her I said that!”

Steve carved expertly and dishes were passed up and down the table as everyone filled their plates as much as possible. As the wine flowed, happy conversation rose and fell and music filled the spaces in the background, Clint couldn’t remember a holiday he’d enjoyed more. He stretched out his leg under the table to catch Phil’s. A look passed between them, words unspoken of love and family, of safety and surety and of how this was all they could ever have wanted for this day.

“Oh!” exclaimed Fitz suddenly, “it’s nearly three o’clock!”

Clint caught sight of Tasha turning to him, utter bemusement across her face.

“Relax, I’ve got it covered,” said Tony airily. “Jarvis, if you would?”

“It would be an honor, sir,” replied the AI, turning on the screen in the wall behind Thor’s head. On it appeared the Queen of England.

“Shit, are we being assembled by the Queen?” asked Clint. He wasn’t sure he’d be of much use right now considering how much food he’d consumed.

“Shhhhh!” hushed Fitz. “It’s the Queen’s Speech.” And so for the next fifteen minutes, FitzSimmons watched intently as their monarch addressed the people of her realm.

“That was lovely, thank you Tony,” said Jemma, once the address was over. “Normally everyone finds it really boring but being away from home, it seems a little more important.”

The main course now finished with, more people got up to help clear the dishes but then returned with bowls.

“There’s more food?” asked Skye, looking at Jemma. 

“Christmas pudding, right?” she asked hopefully, looking at Tasha. “With brandy sauce?”

“Oh yes,” she confirmed. “Do you think I’d miss out on the opportunity to add more alcohol to this day?” and she popped out for a moment, returning with two flaming puddings, smiling as everyone gasped before the flames died out.

The dessert was doled out and Clint was surprised to find he rather liked the fruity, nutty cake combination and it wasn’t as dense as the weight of carrying them back from the store had made him suspect it would be.

When the bowls were scraped clean, a collective groan of stuffed people rose from the table.

“That’s it, right? You people don’t eat for another week after this, surely,” asked Ward, looking as though he could fall asleep at the table.

“The meal is over, yes,” confirmed Tasha.

“It was amazing, seriously. Thank you so much, everybody. It’s really felt like home,” said Fitz as Jemma nodded in agreement.

“Well there’s some incredibly comfortable couches out there, what say we go and lie on them?” asked Tony. “Miracle on 34th Street sound good? Jarvis, queue it up.”

The party shuffled through to the den and collapsed in various piles onto the soft furnishings. Clint tucked himself under Phil’s arm, as Tasha did under Steve’s. Skye and Jemma snuggled under a blanket and then pulled Fitz and Ward down to join them. Tony lay down on an enormous leather beanbag, protesting that he couldn’t possibly sit up, and Pepper folded herself into an armchair just above him with Thor, May and Bruce on the seat next to her.

The film played as people chatted and dozed and looked through their gifts. Then Tony chose Die Hard, “A Christmas classic!” he defended, and lit the fire which Clint had prepared. Slightly more awake now, the group watched and called out all the inaccuracies they saw, until about half way through Jemma announced she was making tea and would anyone like some?

“Ooo yes please,” said Fitz. “And a biscuit? I’m a little peckish.”

“Actually, I could eat,” said Ward, looking surprised as he even said it.

“There is a Christmas cake, and mince pies,” volunteered Bruce who then grinned as FitzSimmons’ faces lit up.

“You bought a cake?” asked Jemma. 

“And mince pies?” asked Fitz as they both scrambled towards the kitchen. “We’ll get it, don’t worry. Anyone else for tea?” they called as they tripped over their own feet in their eagerness.

A little while later they appeared with all the tea-making equipment and a silver platter covered in slices of cake and little mince pies around the edges. Jemma poured tea for those who wanted it and Fitz handed out plates and cake.

-

Later that evening, when the fire had died down to just the white-hot embers and most people had gone to bed, Clint found Phil in an armchair, glass of whiskey in hand, his eyes betraying far away thoughts.

“Hey,” he said, wiggling himself into Phil’s lap and resting his head on Phil’s shoulder. “Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas, Clint,” and Phil pressed a kiss to the top of Clint’s head.


End file.
